


Black Tie Event (Be My Honeypot?)

by MelWinchester (deadgirlheather)



Series: Imagines!Verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Jealous Dean Winchester, Possessive Dean Winchester, Reader-Insert, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Team Free Will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 03:59:32
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5570206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deadgirlheather/pseuds/MelWinchester
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the Reader acts as a well-dressed honeypot for a hunt and the boys are in formal wear. Also, Dean gets jealous very easily.</p><p>*based on anon imagine on allsupernaturalimagines.tumblr.com*</p>
            </blockquote>





	Black Tie Event (Be My Honeypot?)

Nobody effin' asked you if you wanted to be the honeypot, but you were determined not to take offense to it. It was, after all, only fitting that the boys volunteer you, seeing as you'd told the clerk that the three of them were in a homoerotic polyamorous relationship that consisted of only wild sex parties and orgies as you'd all checked into the motel. You sexualize them; they sexualize you. It was a dog-eat-dog world, and you decided to live with it because one, you brought it on yourself, and two, you really needed a honeypot and the target was a straight male.

If there was one good thing you got out of the situation, it was the dress. Cas and Sam had shoved several hundreds (scammed hundreds, but still) into your hand and sent you off with Dean to find an appropriate outfit for the event. Dean had grumbled to you about you not needing a babysitter, to which you'd responded that you needed someone to tell you what looked sexy and what didn't. Thus, you argued, he was the logical choice because Cas still wasn't crystal on the concept of sex appeal and Sam had turned bright pink and dropped an unloaded gun on his foot when you'd asked him to help earlier. This argument only earned you a smirk from Dean and an eye roll as he started making fun of his younger brother. Still, Dean accompanied you to the fancy dress store and sat in a poufy, positively ridiculous pink chair as you tried on dress after dress. He'd named three requirements: shows blatant cleavage, hugs the ass, and emphasizes long legs. If a dress didn't pass all three requirements, he wouldn't let you take it off the rack. If it did meet all requirements, however, he'd throw it carelessly into your arms and usher you into the changing room. This is how you and Dean Winchester ended up in a dress store for hours on end-- not because you were being picky, but because he was.

Eventually, the two of you settled on a metallic, animal-print mini dress. The top was some slouchy scoop neck, where it showed ample cleavage, and the fabric was sort of like polyester, so it hugged your ass tightly. Being a mini dress, it naturally left little leg to the imagination. Dean had whooped when you came out in it. Presently, you stood in the bunker, tugging the dress hem down again, because the goddamn thing kept riding up and so help him God if Dean commented on it. You weren't shy, and you knew you were extremely beautiful. However, every person has their insecurities, and your ass just so happened to be one of yours. When you'd gotten your curves, you'd gotten them fast, and this had left stretch marks on your hips, upper thighs, and ass. None of the men and women you'd been with had ever minded, but it still bothered you. And so you tugged on the dress hem over and over again.

Your stretch marks were chased out of your mind by the boys' arrival into the stomach of the bunker.

Your eyes widened. You weren't oblivious. You knew you lived with three very attractive men, but you'd never really thought of them as potential hook-ups until the three of them prowled towards you in suits, looking dapper and slick and handsome as hell. Not that you would let them know any of this. "Well, don't you clean up nicely," you said, smirking.

"Shut up, Y/N," the boys echoed, tugging at their clothes uncomfortably. "We have work to do."

You rolled your eyes, ignoring the swelling Dean's cute little bow tie caused in your gut. "Amateurs," you muttered before blowing a pink bubble of bubblegum in Dean's face and blowing a kiss, swirling out of the bunker in a cloud of expensive perfume and glitter.

* * *

 

"Babygirl," the man purred in your ear, his hand running clumsily up your exposed leg. You tried not to flinch, scanning the place for Sam, Dean and Cas. How were they not done yet?! You'd been flirting with the man for an hour, avoiding his advances and ignoring his blatant sexual assault. They were  _supposed_ to be finding their way into the private garden, where the man's dead wife was buried. It was a relatively simple salt-and-burn, something Team Free Will could handle in its sleep. The man cheated on his wife, the wife had a heart attack, the wife came back and haunted and attacked all men in the general vicinity. Only problem was that the rich man wanted his wife buried on his property (was that even legal?) in his garden. Whatever. You'd just needed to slide into the party unnoticed and keep his attention while the boys torched the corpse. It seemed simple enough in the bunker, but now it was seeming like a really stupid idea.

"Babe, whattdya say we leave the crowd and head upstairs, huh?" The man leered. His breath smelled like foul champagne and cigars. You tried not to cough. You _hated_ the saccharine smell of cigars. You made yourself smile coyly. As disgusting as this man was, his wife's ghost was worse, and people's lives were on the line. You could lead him on a little while longer.

"Why?" You said, licking your lips. "You got something to tell me that you can't tell me down here?" You asked, and you were a little bit ashamed of how suggestive you could sound without even trying.

"Oh baby," the man said, and he draped his arm over your shoulders. "What I've got to tell you should make your lacy little panties drop right to the floor. You want me to do it here? I will." He grimaced at you, squeezing your shoulders. His fingers snaked their way into the material of your dress skirt. You tried not to break his nose. "I'll pay you two thousand dollars for a screw," he said, and he grinned in your face. At your stoic silence, he leaned in, his moist lips uncomfortably close to your ear as he whispered, "I'll throw in an extra thousand for without a condom."

Before you could shove the man down and break his ribcage open (which you were honestly just about to do), a rough hand grabbed onto the man's shoulder. The sleazy man was pitched from his chair, thrown onto his bum by none other than Dean Winchester.

Dean stepped over the sputtering man like throwing grown men to the floor was something he did everyday, because it probably was. His green eyes were fixed solely on you, and you were a tad surprised to see concern in them.

"Y/N?" His voice was husky as he offered his arm to you. "The bitch is gone," he said, and you felt yourself relax for the first time since the hunt had started. "Are you okay?"

Before you could answer, the man managed to peel himself off of the floor. He clapped a punch-slap onto Dean's back. You were fairly certain it was supposed to be an attack, but it looked more like a flustered penguin trying to take flight. You saw Dean's jaw clench. You noted that he was trying to ignore the dude, but this didn't last long after the man flapped into Dean's back again.

Dean whipped around so fast that the guy actually yelped, and this was even  _before_ Dean started threatening him. "Listen, buddy," Dean growled. "Y/N here is _my_ girl. She's not a prostitute, and she's not yours to touch. Now you better back the fuck off before you get hurt."

The man's eyes narrowed, and he glared at you. "Listen, your bitch was flirting with  _me,_ asshole," he said slickly.  _What a cocky bastard._ "So why don't you just let the pretty bitch off her leash to play?"

You heard the crack of the hit before your eyes had registered that Dean had moved. The man flew to the floor faster than you knew a man could move. Dean struck him down in one punch, slamming his fist against the man's nose. Blood spurted from the man's face, and rich people everywhere were gasping and rich ladies were swooning like it was the goddamn eighteenth century. 

"You're a sick bastard," Dean said lowly, looming over the man, who was still conscious and now cowering. "And you should count yourself lucky."

Then, Dean Winchester took your hand, the man's blood smearing your fingers, and led you out of the party.


End file.
